i locked myself in the closet for a week

protestation for being a bad writer. for being too uncaring to schedule myself a dentist. maybe as an anti-war demonstration. is there any separation or distance between anything?

i got delirious on day three and day six i thought i might die. i was hungry. and insane with myself. and the water jug was empty. well, full of piss. so i got out. and made oatmeal.

the value of solitude and suffering

derivative meaning in a noisy world

stop halt! the pains of social obligation

the longing of retreat

Oh, flawed, limited human…

gather up stomach for the lemons

stop running, start confronting

lick your limits

i got messages from the unseen world

aren’t i a strange and lovely thing?

a neon rino stuck with tar-pit heart

the soul’s insurrection. a one-man war. victor and slain.

brinkmanship with the self. where are the outer limits?

art is man’s one glory. all else is fart on face. art must replace democracy and religion. art must usurp consumers trying to fit somewhere. art must kill bigotry.

without a renaissance, life is better told as a ghost wandering and wondering — the actively detached eavesdropper.

donna tartt is too smart. the goldfinch is 771 pages. i cry a lot. the secret history is better. but i wish she were my friend. i’m not smart enough for her. we both understand everything. but she can write it out.

i stopped drinking and smoking weed five days ago. i’m getting good at chess. i miss bowling. nine of my photographs arrived today by fedex. they are magic and god. samer will help me hang them tomorrow. i’ve painted 61 pieces in the past half year. i never painted before that. didn’t know i could. or wanted to.

lots of cosmic dali birds and woodland faeries chirping political high jumble wumble exposition of my immutable soul. i’m scared i’ll never like being around people again.

i made friends with an ex marine. we play chess and talk politics. his stories should be a movie. probably are.

my wrists are shrinking. ankles too. i’m 138 pounds and six feet tall. i may have cancer or something terminal. i don’t have enough sex for hiv. i won’t go to the doctor. i don’t want to die but i’m not too scared. i’m thirty-two. i lift weights and do yoga but you can’t tell. if i flex, my biceps are nice boy arms.

thomas paine is my best friend. he understood everything. he might supplant my two favorite misogynists, henry & jack. anais nin and allen ginsberg would be nice to have a cigarette and sauna with.

i want to prove schopenhauer wrong. saying that proves him right.

i’m getting mean. my temper is short. i can’t stomach simple sals.

i can’t stop caring what the world thinks of me. only i don’t care. it’s a nervous twitch. fixing my hair. checking facebook. trying. a terrible habit. so i hole away for months. because i don’t care. i don’t care so much that it forces me to care so much. becuase i don’t need anyone in particular, i need everyone. i can’t truly love anyone because i love everyone. what i mean is, i have empathy for being alive. love makes me hate. that’s probably a shit lie.

i don’t want to die. i love drugs and poker. no one is more competitve than me. i am almost always right. it gets old. i wish i were wrong more so i could accept others. but i’m not so i can’t.

i hold my breath in the bathtub. and i sometimes let the hottub jets make me cum, which is selfish. the bleach must kill the sperm.

i have not yet gotten through moby dick, any bronte, or don quixote in full. i pick them up, i try, and i fail.

i did not have a good education. i’ve made up for lost time. i am a thirsty soul.

i learned physics from google. quantum entanglement is our consciousness touching god.

nietzsche, schopenhauer, miller, and kerouac have fucked me up. i know i’m supposed to outgrow them, but i can’t. can kindred be killed?

i can’t pray anymore. it’s so cheap now. that hurts. only sometimes i can.

life’s sugaries aren’t enough anymore. i need sweeter nectar than candy.

a perverse alchemist —

it takes two seconds to size someone up. speaking to men as they are gets you nowhere. no one wants to be themselves. playing to the hero they envision themselves as, but can’t embody, gains the access. loosens the bolts. always address the fantasy self.

dreams are the juice. the redemptive counter to waking life.

to know fully your own mania. to smile at your schizophrenia. to play witness as you leave the dreamworld of youth. i watch myself. my thoughts. a chilling internal smile; gratitude and awe in helpless resignation. i cannot change.

structure kills plot. no matter what, keep your darling alive.

the flitting present is all there is. time and space are infinite. humans are not.

images. sounds. then death.

none can truly know how things are. copernicus was right. we are the sun. Our Senses & Our View — beyond our imagination there is nothing. ‘true reality’ is utter crap.

i am a finite individual. endless relativity. ever becoming without being. endless wishing without satisfaction.

and yet i am of the eternal spring.

unperishable quark

alan watts was a drunk. the buddha was fat and lazy and utterly without hope.

life: thwarted effort.

and yet, immortality is mine.

fuck you, i filch. i am outside your rules and laws. suspended.

all is plagiarism.

the futility of time, the futility of effort — eternal will, collected.

time gives and strips all value.

the only idol is time. time is youth and sated craving. season and change. love, loss, expectation, grief. time is our one drug & witness.

drugs have made me overly sensitive to the soul of a space. can’t you feel the fridges groan? the lives lived emanate from the hardwood floor. his shirt speaks. the condo hottub has things to say. hidden stories. energy everywhere. the chain of a bike. the empty ice tray. a stray license plate on that ford 150. what if granola has consciousness? life just hits me different these days.

clean, clear heartache is easy. this numb abhorrent outpour isn’t based in anything i can easily detect. i need past-life regression. i need hypnosis.

i need a pickle.